


Feeling Peckish

by KittyHowell



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley can cook!, F/M, Fluff, M/M, lots of eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 11:04:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19375438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyHowell/pseuds/KittyHowell
Summary: Crowley had found he quite liked cooking for Aziraphale but there is no way in Hel-no, Heav-wait. There is just no way the demon is going to offer to do so for no other reason than wanting.





	Feeling Peckish

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, yes, and so it begins. My obsession with this is insane but I have no regrets.

The morning after the almost Apocalypse is one of the most beautiful Crowley has ever seen. It doesn’t look any different than any other from his living room window, if he were being perfectly honest. The sun rises steadily, spilling it’s bright and happy colors over the horizon. There are a few people walking along the sidewalk, driving in their cars, going along with their business as usual despite the early hour.

That’s probably what’s so beautiful about it. 

Crowley stretches, feels his not quite human bones crack as he does. His couch is not the most comfortable thing to lie on, he’s learned. Though, Crowley has always had a bit of trouble sleeping when he’s stressed. Not that he needs to. He just likes it, is all. He’s tried sleeping on the ceiling before as well. Perhaps that would have been better than the couch this time.

Crowley can feel the worry edging at his brain again. He takes a glance down the darkened hall, where he knows, where he can feel the sleeping angel lying in his bed. Oh, how badly he wanted to stay with him last night. How desperately he wants to go to him now. 

Sighing, Crowley resists the urge and tends to his plants instead. He mists their leaves and inspects them closely but doesn’t say a single word. He doesn’t want to risk waking Aziraphale. They’d only gotten back to his flat at close to midnight as it were. Crowley had wanted to drown in alcohol but instead listened to Aziraphale talk about the witch’s last prophecy, what it could mean, and what they could do. They had been up until the wee hours of the morning and the poor angel had looked dead on his feet by the time Crowley had convinced him to take the bedroom. The sun was just rising now and Crowley was only up because his couch was much too uncomfortable for demon habitation as it would be. 

He is confident, almost, in their plan. Aziraphale is clever, so clever. He’d thought about the small piece of paper all the way back to the flat and discussed his reasoning with Crowley fully before they made their decision and planned out what could be their last day. 

He thinks, vaguely, about asking Aziraphale to run away with him again. He might even say yes, now that humanity is safe. But Crowley is worried about how their respective head offices would react to being unable to find them. They could potentially try to harm Adam, or Anathema, or maybe the Them. And if Crowley is worried about them, he can only imagine how Aziraphale is feeling. 

It’s then that he hears soft footsteps coming from down the hall. He doesn’t look, but doesn’t worry over them. He knows what Aziraphale sounds like, what he smells like. What he feels like. Aziraphale stops just at the doorway, waits silently for Crowley to finish and look at him. 

When the demon finally does, he is resolved to decide that this morning is truly the most beautiful morning the Earth has ever seen. Aziraphale stands at the doorway, the window far behind them. The morning light still bleeding into the sky blanketed around him. And he, with his mussed up hair, still wore the charcoal grey pajama set Crowley had offered to him the night before. They had been a Christmas present from the angel to him, one year they celebrated together while taking care of Warlock. They were soft and warm. Crowley knew this well because he wore them all the time. 

“Good morning, dear boy,” the angel says, voice full of sleep and such contentment to him, in his flat, in his clothing, that Crowley is ready to fall to his knees and thank whomever for having Aziraphale in his life as he does. 

“Morning,” is his reply. He sets the mist sprayer down on the small black table in the corner and walks out the room back into the common area, forcing himself not to stop in front of his guest. 

“Why are you up so early?” Aziraphale sounds concerned now so Crowley answers honestly.

“The couch is a little uncomfortable.” Crowley sits back down on the horrible piece of furniture as he says this, places his arm around the back to turn and get a better look at the blond. He hasn’t yet moved from the doorway. “Why are you up, angel? The bed is...far more comfortable.” 

At this, Aziraphale’s ears go a little pink. He lowers his chin for just a moment, smiling, then comes to sit next to the demon. “Yes, thank you. To be quite honest I am not absolutely certain what woke me.” 

Neither comment further on the matter.

“Are you hungry?”

“Oh,” the other responds, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. Angels and demons don’t need to eat but Aziraphale has taken a liking to it over the last 6000 years. He doesn’t get hungry, he craves. Maybe it’s all the same. “A bit, yes, I will admit.” He’s trying to think of the diners surrounding Crowley’s place they could go when the demon goes surprising him. 

“I’ll go make us breakfast.” 

Crowley gets up from the couch immediately, saultering off into what Aziraphale can only imagine to be the kitchen. 

“What,” Aziraphale questions back a little bit foolishly, eyes blinking a little too rapidly for an eternal being who does not technically need to blink. He can’t even imagine Crowley owning a pot let alone actually to use one but sure enough when he follows the tall demon into what he presumed correctly to be the kitchen, Crowley is taking food out of the fridge. 

Aziraphale can see that he’s grabbing eggs, bacon, and has bread already laid out on the counter. This again makes him raise his eyebrow in question but Crowley’s back is turned to him so he receives no answer. There’s a bar nook just opposite the stove, tall black bar stools pushed in neatly. Aziraphale takes a seat there and watches Crowley work. 

He appears to be pretty good, though Aziraphale really has no idea what it takes to be good at cooking. For a man who simply adores eating, he’s never bothered to learn anything more complicated than making tea. He has the bacon sizzling perfectly before starting the eggs. He doesn’t ask how the other takes them. He’s watched him eat them before in many places around the world. 

“I didn’t know you could cook, my dear,” Aziraphale says finally. He wants to sound inquisitive but it comes out pleased instead. 

“I was a nanny for several years, angel.”

“They had a cook,” the other replies. 

“Yes, but she was having an affair with that maid, you know, the one with the black hair.” He looks over his shoulder and grins and Aziraphale knows exactly how that relationship came to be. Crowley shrugs then, mumbles, “young love,” almost fondly and continues with the food in front of him. “I often had to cook for Warlock when she disappeared, which was at some point everyday.” 

“I had no idea,” is the other’s absent reply. The breakfast is simple so Crowley is done quickly after that. He brings Aziraphale his eggs, over medium with bacon, toast and jam. “Just the way I like it…” He looks down at the plate to hide his pleased smile but he’s sure it’s been spotted nonetheless. “Thank you.” 

Crowley only ‘hmms’ in response as he settles into the chair next to Aziraphale. By the way the demon shifts in the seat, the angel can tell somehow with complete certainty, that Crowley has never bothered to use them before. 

Crowley catches him staring and for just a moment, it looks as if the demon will say something about it. Instead, he takes a bite of his egg and says, “Most important meal of the day, angel. Better eat up.” 

Aziraphale smiles and does as suggested. It’s a wonderful last meal, he thinks, if it comes to that. Delicious, and in the company of the most important person in his entire existence. 

…

It takes several months for Crowley to need to cook again. Crowley doesn’t mind the deed itself. It’s entirely possible for him to just miracle food, but even he knows things taste better when done the human way. He doesn’t mind the cleanup, either. If he’s feeling particularly lazy, he would just wish them done and it would be but he rather found the process of scrubbing the dishes clean soothing. 

He had found he quite liked cooking for Aziraphale but there is no way in Hel-no, Heav-wait. There is just no way the demon is going to offer to do so for no other reason than wanting. 

The two of them have settled into a nice routine now after surviving the other’s death sentences. Crowley still performs small deeds of mischief, if only to keep life interesting. They’re harmless at the end of the day, but still fun. Aziraphale sometimes joins in, if tempted enough. More often than not though, the angel manages to convince him to help him do something kind for someone. 

It’s a bit disgusting, in its own right. 

There’s also a continuous string of diner breakfasts, sushi lunches, Ritz dinners, and late night teas and wine. There’s feeding ducks, movie nights, walks in parks, and anything else that they feel they want to do. In all of it, pouring Aziraphale another glass of wine or making him hot coco is the closet he gets to cooking for him and it’s certainly not the same. 

So it isn’t until several months later that the two are having a quiet night in with wine and cheese when they hear a loud commotion outside the bookshop that interrupts their discussion on whether or not Keanu Reeves might be an immortal. 

“No, absolutely not, Crowley. We would know, surely if he was?” 

“I’m just saying, angel, that it’s possible. They didn’t tell us everything and have you seen him? Never ages.” 

Aziraphale never gets to reply. He’s practically flying for the window to see what’s going on. He will not have fighting outside of his bookshop! 

When his eyes land on two young girls, looking frightened and running away from a small group of boys, Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “Crowley, the door hurry!” 

The demon complies instantly and Aziraphale is out before he can blink. He stands between the girls and the still advancing group of young men. The girls stop running, terrified and out of breath. It’s pouring rain outside and Crowley motions for the girls to come in. They hesitate and Crowley tries his best to emote security and kindness. He tries to be like Aziraphale. 

They must decide to trust them because with one last questioning look to one another, they dash inside. 

“You will leave here at once,” Aziraphale tells the boys. He stands prim and without fear, his voice does not waver. It is, however, still a smallish man wearing a two hundred year old jacket and a tartan bow tie. And these are some of London’s dumbest, most disgraceful, little shits. 

The young man in the middle steps forward but stops dead in his tracks when he spots Crowley casually leaning against the doorframe. Crowley doesn’t speak. He doesn’t flash his eyes, or use his powers. He doesn’t even move. He glares, and in that glare he tells him exactly what he’ll do to him if he so much as lifts a finger at his angel. 

The man backs away and his crownies follow. 

Aziraphale turns back, smiling and soaked and proud. Crowley grins back softly, waves his hand out the door and he closes it behind the other man. There will be a nice surprise waiting for the boys around the corner. 

The girls are soaked and terrified, basically huddled together in the corner of the room. 

“Please, don’t be frightened. They’re gone. My name is Aziraphlale and this is Crowley.” 

The girls don’t speak for a moment, but then one steps forward, just slightly. “Do you have a phone we can use?” 

“Oh, yes, of course,” Aziraphale points to the phone in the other corner and then rushes off into his office. He brings back towels and blankets that Crowley knows he’s miracled. 

The taller of the two girls uses the phone while the other watches them closely. Aziraphale lays the miracled articles down before stepping back to Crowley. They learn, just from hearing the phone call, that they’re visiting the one girl’s father who recently moved to London. They got lost and it began to rain. That’s when they ran into the boys. 

“My dad can’t get here for another hour,” the girl whispers as she hangs up. The men behind her were obviously not suppose to hear but they do anyway. 

“That’s quite alright,” Aziraphale says, clapping his hands together lightly. “Why don’t you two dry off and get warm? I will make tea and Crowley. Food?”

“Yes, angel,” the demon says softly. He doesn’t want to frighten the girls. He knows how he can come off. He is a demon, after all. 

They leave the girls alone and walk silently together up to the small kitchenette Aziraphale has. It’s tiny, really. Just big enough for the two to stand together but not enough room for them not to bump into each other while they’re moving around. It should probably remind Crowley of Hell a bit but it’s warm and inviting, smells like Aziraphale and coco so Crowley doesn’t mind at all. 

Aziraphale is silent, and the demon knows it’s because he has two terrified girls in his bookstore and they’ve just chased away men who could have...who might have. 

Crowley cannot finish the thought. 

Humans don’t need demons to do terrible vile things. They never did. That’s why he managed to do basically nothing for 6000 years and no one ever noticed. Humanity never needed demons, they need angels. 

Crowley places a tentative hand on the other’s shoulder. He’s afraid to offer comfort. Somehow, he feels as if he’ll be blamed. Demon and sin and evil and all. But Aziraphale places his hand over his and squeezes, smiling. “Thanks for making food, dear boy.” 

Crowley nods, takes his hand away to continue. They’re gone less than fifteen minutes from the girls and are back with tea and cheesy chicken pasta that Warlock used to love. 

They set down their offerings and retreat back a bit to sit and eat their own. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale practically melts over his first bite. “This is absolutely wonderful Crowley.” 

The praise has the girls picking up their own bowls to eat. The girls devour theirs quickly and Crowley goes up for seconds for both of them. When he comes back down, they’re sipping their tea and talking willing, though cautiously, to the angel. 

“Thank you for letting us stay here while we wait.” 

“Oh, it’s no problem,” the blonde insists. “We’re very happy to help.” 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale says, referring to Crowley, “these two were just telling me how they managed to get lost. It appears a taxi driver may have “taken them for a ride” as the phrase goes, I believe? Well, I’ve gotten the number, anyway.” 

Oh, how his angel knows him so well. 

The four sit and chat until the one girl’s father arrives. He is grateful to the two, offers money and tickets to a show he’s involved in, but they decline. In the end he offers his thanks, which they accept graciously. Crowley offers his umbrella to them so they don’t get any colder and Aziraphale absolutely insists they take a blanket to help keep warm in the car. 

After, Aziraphale goes back to his wine and pasta. Crowley stands a bit awkwardly to the side, staring out the window at the rain. 

“It’s getting late.” 

It was nearing midnight now. 

“Yes, I do say it is.” the angel hums. “I believe I shall retire in a moment.” 

“I’ll be heading off.” 

Aziraphale exhales through his nose a bit forcefully. “Actually, Crowley,” he pauses, looking thoughtful. Crowley wants to kiss him. “Can you stay, please? I don’t much feel like being alone.” 

The demon only nods. If he opens his mouth, his words would surely betray him. 

…

Winter comes on quickly after that. It always seems to in London. Autumn is such a beautiful season. Summer fades into fall slowly, but winter crashes through like a hurricane. One day there are leaves on the ground and the next it’ll snow for three days straight. The snow never seems to stay, but the cold. 

Crowley hates the cold, being a snake and all. 

He takes to hiding in Aziraphale’s bookshop, snuggled on the couch with tea and blanket. The angel frets over him a bit and he allows it. He loves it, actually. It makes him feel special and...well, happy. 

It’s about a month into the cold season when Aziraphale gets a fever. They don’t think much of it at first because their issued bodies do not normally fall ill. Crowley battles occasionally depression but that’s a sickness of his soul, not his actual body. They remember, a little late, that Aziraphale’s body is new. That his old one was destroyed and his new one has been on the Earth for less than a year. He hadn't really gotten a chance to break it in yet, as it would be. 

So Aziraphale gets very, very ill. His fever becomes high, he vomits, he shakes. He lays in his bed all day and whines like he’s Crowley before passing out. 

That’s when the demon knows it’s serious. 

He miracles his favorite blanket from his flat into Aziraphale’s bedroom. It’s a weighted blanket, cozy and soft. He places it directly on the angel and then two more on top of it. After he places a cold washcloth on his forehead and a bucket next to the bed just in case he wakes while the demon is gone. 

He quietly makes his way to the kitchenette to check for food supplies. Aziraphale still doesn’t cook so the only thing he keeps around are normally tea, coco, and bread for occasional toast to snack on. 

He claps his hands and the necessary ingredients appear in front of him. He sets about cutting the vegetables while he gets the pot started. He could have had it all done with a simple flick of his wrist but he needs to do something, needs to have his hands busy or he may go crazy. 

How sick is Aziraphale? How concerned should he be? Is there anything more he should be doing? 

Crowley is concerned, whether or not he had the right to be. He cooks his chicken and then adds everything to the pot to make the soup. He had made Warlock chicken noodle soup a couple times before. Crowley himself was not really sure of its healing properties. Actually, he’s pretty certain Aziraphale was the one who created the connection between healing and this particular soup. Crowley wasn’t there at the time, he’d been in the next city and hadn’t had time to visit the angel but he’d heard the stories of a bright blonde haired man serving chicken noodle soup to the sick of the village there and people miraculously feeling better. It had spread like wildfire after that. 

Crowley labors over the soup, making sure it’s perfect for the angel. It may not actually help with the illness but hopefully it will at least comfort him in someway. When the soup is nearly done, he makes a pot of tea and places everything on the tea tray Aziraphale always uses to serve their drinks. As an afterthought, he gets a glass of water before heading back. 

Aziraphale doesn’t look like he’s moved an inch. Crowley isn’t sure how he feels about that. He almost hates to wake him up but does so anyway without much hesitation. 

“Go away,” the blond murmurs, turning slightly. 

Despite his worry, the demon smiles. “Zira, wake up, I brought soup. You need to eat something.” There’s no reply, but when Crowley touches the other’s shoulder, the other moves, just slightly, closer to him. “I made chicken noodle.” 

The angel stills, then sits up so he can turn to face his best friend. “You did?” He wipes his nose. 

The redhead just nods. Aziraphale sits back against the pillows, still overly fluffy and a little uncomfortable from never being used. Crowley sets the tray over his lap and then sits at the end of the bed next to the angel’s feet. 

Voice thick with misery and snot, Aziraphale asks, “And you made this?” 

“Hope it’s alright.” 

The moan he gets in response is better than anything else he could have said. Crowley gets that feeling again, that blossoming of want and love and need in his belly that almost has him reaching out. “It’s wonderful.” 

Several more minutes pass. Crowley examines his companions face closely and wonders if he’s imaging the color returning to his features. 

After, the angel still feels ill because of course he does. No matter how much blessing he puts into his soup, or how good the soup actually is, the illness will just need to run its course. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale mumbles, already laying back down before the fallen could blink. He pulls the blankets up to his chin, takes a deep breath, and smells. He smells Crowley on the blankets like he’s lying in bed with him. It’s then he notices the blanket that is most certainly not one he keeps around the shop for emergencies now, and smiles before drifting to sleep.

Crowley doesn’t sleep, just dozes lightly in the chair next to him. 

…

Newt gets is butt in gear and asks Anathema to marry him. Agnes had been pushing him to do so from, well, basically the beginning and he loved her more than he could have imagined loving another person. It is a rather difficult decision for the two of them, despite their love for one another. Anematha no longer wants to be driven by destiny and Newt is worried about leading her down a path she didn’t actually want. 

In the end, they decide to screw fate(and each other) and get hitched. Neither Newt or Anathema had a lot of friends growing up. Newt was never very popular and Anathema had always been too busy learning and preparing to save the world. So beside their respective families, the few people they become close to in Tadfield, and the others involved in the end times, they had no one else to invite. 

Anathema decided on a small intimate ceremony in their own home. They invited less than fifty people, and deciding to have it at their home, set out to do most of the planning and preparation themselves. Madame Tracey, the loving and romantic that she is, offers her services of flower arranging and baking. Aziraphale, without consulting the demon, offers Crowly’s amazing ability to cook. 

When confronted over this, the angel merely blushes and offers his hands to help. 

Crowley mumbles “I can think of something else you can do with those hands” too lowly for the angel to hear but ultimately shrugs his shoulders at the situation. He could never say no to Aziraphale and Crowley knew if he cooked for everyone, he’d cook for Aziraphale and that was just too tempting not to accept. 

Crowley prepares for literal days. Aziraphale appreciated the demon’s efforts before but actually seeing the human amount of work he puts into each and every course he makes him do so all the more. 

Aziraphale is...no help. He pours the wine and makes the tea but other than cheering Crowley on or miracling him a knife, he’s basically useless. 

I’ll have to gift Crowley something for this...I did volunteer him without asking. Perhaps a plant? Hm, one for the bookshop, maybe? 

“Angel, if you would,” the demon calls out for him from the other side of the kitchen. It’s the day of and Crowley is putting on the finishing touches. It had been a lovely ceremony but now the guests were mingling in the backyard, happily awaiting their food. 

Aziraphale comes to him without question, “Yes, my dear?” 

“Taste this, would you,” Crowley holds out a deviled egg. It looks perfectly normal but Aziraphale is practically dying to taste whatever Crowley gives him. Instead of taking the egg from him, Aziraphale leans forward and takes a bite of the hard boiled egg, moaning as soon as the taste hits his senses. Aziraphale has no idea what the redhead does to this food but goodness, it’s perfection. 

Crowley stands there, stock still and blushing. The angel realizes too late that maybe he should have taken the egg from the other before eating it. They both stand there another moment, then, the blonde smiles, leans down and bites the rest of the egg into his mouth. 

“Delicious, my dear, absolutely wonderful.” 

Behind them, Adam walks in and immediately turns back around. He tells Anathema that the food will take less than ten minutes and then runs off with Dog, who looks quite fetching in his bow tie. 

…

The morning after the wedding, Aziraphale wakes up in Crowley’s bed. He’s not sure where he is at first but then he catches the scent that is unmistakably his demon and remembers, vaguely, coming back to his after the reception clean up for more wine and deviled eggs. 

The blonde isn’t sure how the other keeps convincing him to take his bed, it seems rather inconvenient for him. He feels a little guilty over it, as it were. The bookshop wouldn’t be any better. They never bothered to make guest rooms. In all their time on Earth, the two had never created any lasting relationships other than each other, and, well, sofas had always done the job on the off night that Crowley had stayed over at this. 

He had thought about creating a spare bedroom in his bookshop about 12 years ago now, but hadn’t. He thought the implications of it were too...messy. If he had, it would have been an invitation to stay over, surely, but to stay over and away from him. Separate. In another room. Not exactly what Aziraphale had wanted or wants now. 

Speaking of, where is the demon? Probably trying to sleep on the ceiling at this point. Huffing out a quiet laugh, the angel gets up and walks slowly out into the common area, his feet paddling against the cold tiles. Aziraphale feels nothing but warmth and love in Crowley’s home. He wonders if the demon can feel it, too. 

He’s not in the common area. Or tending to his plants. Confused, Aziraphale makes his way into the kitchen. As he gets closer, he can hear Crowley mumbling to himself. 

“Good morning, darling.” 

The redhead jumps, too distracted to have noticed the presence behind him. “Morning. Have a seat, almost done.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t ask but he does try to peak. Crowley seems to be purposely stopping him from being able to see, never turning in the slightest to give him a view. It smells just lovely and frankly, the angel feels like he’ll jump out of his skin waiting. 

It’s a bit funny, actually. 

When Crowley deems the dish ready, he sets it down in front of the angel, looking almost nervous. 

Aziraphale gasps. “Oh, you’ve made crepes…I’ve never had homemade ones before.” 

The demon doesn’t comment, just sets the plate down in front of him before coming to sit next to him. Hesitantly, but brimming with excitement, Aziraphale picks up his fork and takes his first bite. Instantly, his eyes flutter closed and his spine noticeably relaxes. He doesn’t chew, just lets it sit in his mouth and melt for a moment before chewing just enough for it to slide down his throat easily. 

When he opens his eyes, he sees Crowly staring at him, his food untouched. Nervously, he clears his throat and asks, “Are these pears?” He lowers his eyes so he doesn’t see the other’s nod but he doesn’t need to know they are. 

“How are they?”

“The absolute best.” There’s a moment of silence and then, “Darling, can I...ask you something?” 

“Sure.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak but stops. Lifts his arms up to the sides of Crowley’s face, fingers gently grabbing the sides of his sunglasses. He pauses, waits for permission. The redhead does not react at all but does not pull away either, so Aziraphale slowly removes them and sets them down between their plates. “There you are…” he says, softly, eyes lit with wonder. He’s always loved Crowley’s eyes. The other’s expression softens just so, and the angel realizes he’s said it out loud. 

“Angel…”

“I wanted to ask,” Aziraphale interrepts before he can lose his nerve, “I want to..Oh, never mind me. I’m...I’m afraid I’m being quite ridiculous.” 

“You’re not ridiculous,” the other reassures. “You’re clever. So clever.” 

There’s something in the way he says it that spurs the blond on. “Well it’s just...you’d never cooked before, you know? And now it seems you cook whenever you can and I just adore it, I really do.”

“Angel,” Crowley says again, not impatient or annoyed, just a remark to let Aziraphale know he is rambling. 

“Yes, right, erm,” he clears his throat again, “It’s just that...I feel, my darling, whenever you cook for me, I feel...love, you see. And the thing is, I always feel love between us but this feels different, this feels...purposeful.” 

At the end of his speech, Crowley is near shaking. He hadn’t realized Aziraphale could detect that, despite knowing his ability to pick up love. He’s never said anything before. The demon always believed he’s hidden it so well. 

“Do you...like making food for me,” the Angel continues when Crowley says nothing. “When you do, are you saying-?”

“Yes,” the other finally says, nodding. 

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale strokes his face. “I love you, too.” 

The press of lips is soft and sweet like caramelized pears. Crowley sees stars, brighter and more brilliant than the ones he once created behind his eyes as they close. Crowley shakes at first, so many years of pining and loving, and wishing, and waiting are coming together in one simple, beautiful kiss. 

Aziraphale nips, just so on his lower lip and the demon opens his mouth to him. The kiss intensifies and it kicks Crowley into high gear. He grabs at his angel’s hips, pulls them closer until they’re both falling off their chairs and into each other’s arms. He holds Aziraphale’s face in his hands and pulls back slightly, pressing their foreheads together. 

“Are you okay with this,” Crowley murmurs against barely parted lips. 

He nods, “I’m sorry it took so long for me to catch up.” 

The redhead shakes his head, as if it to brush it off, but Aziraphale knows how hard it must have been for him. He takes Crowley’s hand and starts back towards the bedroom. “I want to go back to bed.” 

“But-but the crepes.” 

“You have forever to make them for me again.” 

“Let me bring them to bed, at least. They’re your favorite,” the demon insists, trying to move back to grab the plates. 

The blond stops him. “I really just want to enjoy you right now, darling.” 

It takes a moment for it to click. “Whatever you want, angel.” 

He can always make them again tomorrow and pretty much everyday until the end of time.


End file.
